


Make Music With The Chatter In Here

by OhOblivion



Category: One Direction
Genre: I just really wanted to do this, Its a band au, M/M, alternate universe where Harry starts an indie band, band!au, not really - Freeform, pub!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhOblivion/pseuds/OhOblivion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry starts up a band, and Louis starts up Harry. </p><p>Or the one where Harry likes to preform at pubs and the bartender that works there on Tuesday nights is just a bonus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Music With The Chatter In Here

**Author's Note:**

> The Title is Oviedo by Blind Pilot.  
> The rest of the lyrics/references are either The Maccabees or The Kooks.

It started with a pen and a discarded napkin left on the table Harry usually finds himself sitting at after work. It continued with an overheard conversation (something about it not working out -- I may like a little bit of bad weather but this is ridiculous -- and then they’re gone and Harry wishes he’d at least seen their faces) but he’s preoccupied with scribbling something down with scratchy, spindly writing. After that it’s permanent and he knows it too- he feels that pull on his shoulder blade like a rope tethered around his collar bone stringing him along. He thinks he still has it somewhere (the napkin) - shoved in a drawer or something along with Niall’s snapped guitar strings and extra picks. But then again he doesn’t really care about the napkin, yellowed and frayed at the edges, because those words were a part of him just as much as his fingers and toes were.  
And when he got home that night he got out a real notebook, not just a wrinkled napkin from a hole in the wall pub and writes the lyrics out, and then he knew that what this little arrangement of letters was going to do.  


“Yes I like stormy weather  
from my window sill  
You ain't, yeah, you ain't so clever  
You got it all made up  
But it feels like love, love, love  
Oh yes, it feels like touch, touch, touch”  


He finds Niall by chance, the Irish boy lingering a little too long by The Killers section of the record store and Harry compliments his choice of music, and they fall into a steady conversation. And Harry finds out that this blonde boy has a knack for good bands -- oh The Maccabees? Absolutely brilliant -- and his eyes are blue and hopeful and he thinks that maybe this Irish kid was what that cord attached to his arm was leading him to. Harry notes his long fingers are rough and callused, guitar player, he decides. And soon Niall’s right there with him, intrigued by Harry and his notepad full of half finished song lyrics. But Harry doesn’t have the music to accompany them yet so they're brittle and dry, but they hold the meaning just the same as he recites them for Niall.  


“S’different,” he tells Harry, but he cracks a grin to soften his statement and Harry has to look away so he doesn’t go blind. Niall wants to be a part of whatever _this_ is, so next time he brings a guitar to Harry's flat and they put something together. It’s just lonely words accompanied by lonely chords strummed on the guitar, but it’s enough for them to start playing at Ni’s favorite pub and they draw in a crowd of a sizeable portion.  


“They love your curls y’know,” Niall says, tugging one between his fingers to get his point across, and Harry swats his hand away and pinches his side.  


And they fall into a sort of friendship centered around frozen pizza and beer and syllables sung out through parted lips, and it’s comfortable- kind of like breathing, Harry thinks. And he likes Niall. Likes him and his sure fingers that can skip from string to string, and he likes how those same hands can knock over a glass or drop a bowl of cereal in the mornings, waking Harry with a shatter and a sheepish smile -- _morning curly._  


Niall stays longer than originally intended, and he takes up residence in the extra bedroom down the hall (and soon enough there are foreign souvenir mugs from tacky gift shops mixed in with the porcelain ones Harry bought at a thrift shop down the road). And knowing that Niall wanted to stay with him made him happy because it’s something different, having another person living and breathing and making messes in the same flat.  


“You only love me for my cheap beer,” Harry decides one night, emerging from the shower to see Niall spread on the couch tipping another bottle back and setting it on the ground besides him.  


“Thought you would’ve figured that one out by now,” he replies, glancing at Harry, tilting his head backwards on the couch- crossing his eyes a bit. Harry shakes his hair out, getting water on Niall’s face, and the Irish boy barks laughter, before scampering off the couch, retreating into his bedroom.

+

And even though this type of friendship is one that keeps Harry content, he feels like he’s missing something. Like maybe this relationship with Niall is only a fraction of the whole picture, and it’s an idea that starts to take hold when Niall notes that the songs would sound better with a bassist. So Harry complies and goes in search for one. He gives up after his second try at the record store when no one comes in searching for actual good music, and after his third try at the store down the road that sells instruments because no one ever comes in to pick up a new bass (according to the man behind the counter) and it’s ridiculous because there is _no way_ that no one in the entire city of London plays the bass guitar.  


So Harry finds himself back at his table in the corner of the pub where it all started, and then he has that old familiar feeling again. Like there’s a tug on his bicep right by the shoulder, and if he were to extend his arm just a little bit there would be multicolored strings stretching from his forefinger to his collarbone. And then he sees cigarette smoke, and hair that looks like inky shadows splayed across the pavement when the sun has disappeared under the horizon. He just knows that the guy ordering a beer at the counter just a couple steps away is the person he needs to talk to because he’s different, and just the way he looks is enthralling and he wants to know him.  


So he makes his way over and says something about the dark haired boy’s leather jacket -- are you in a cult or do you just like the way the fabric shapes your arms?-- and the boy cracks a smile and gets Harry a beer. And while they talk the boy (whose name he learns is Zayn, which is different and pleasing to the ear, and just so _him_ Harry just has to let out a laugh) his sleeves ride up and Harry can count one, two, three tattoos. Stopping abruptly, he points them out,  


“Did they hurt? Your tattoos?”  


And Zayn turns his eyes down, and focuses on inked illustration on his arm of a hand, with two fingers crossed into a symbol of good luck, “Nah, not really... more of a sting, not much pain,” he says wistfully, “Why? You thinking of getting your pretty skin inked up, cos’ if so, it wasn’t my idea,”  


Harry barks out a laugh, and pats Zayn’s hand fondly, (Niall would like this one), “Not yet, m'waiting till after marriage,” They finish their beers and to Harry’s relief Zayn does know how to play a bass guitar, and he promises to come by the next day around two to hear some of their stuff.  


Harry comes home to find Niall playing Fifa on the couch, his feet slung lazily over the side. He was still in his trackies, and Harry wondered if he ever even changed after he had rolled out of bed (probably only a couple hours prior to now).  


“I found a new friend for us,” He says, draping himself on the couch beside the blonde haired boy.  


“Good, I was getting real tired of you,” Niall quips, glancing at Harry sideways, “ya don’t have real good food, trying to starve me, and you have this weird smell if you haven’t showered all day,”  


Harry giggles, nuzzling his face into Niall’s neck, “You’ll like this one Ni, he’s a real catch, with deep brown eyes and tan skin, kind of like one of those mythological gods y’know?”  


“What do you mean?” Niall asks, pausing his game and turning all the way around to face Harry, “are you tryna’ say that you may or may not have invited a powerful super being to come make music with us?”  


“Oh piss off,”  


“He could turn us to stone! Harry!”  


“No I don't think he had snakes for hair," Harry quips, "it’s real nice hair, like black coffee- no cream, just how you like it,”  


Niall scoffs and digs his fingers into Harry’s side making the younger boy let out a yelp, and he kicks himself off the couch, away from the reach of Niall.  


“S’that what I get for tryna set you up with someone nice?” Harry asks, scampering his way to bed.  


“Don’t need anyone if I have you!” Niall calls back, and Harry pretends like he doesn’t hear Niall break into song (maybe it was that tune from Monsters Inc, maybe it wasn’t).

+

The events of the night before are forgotten when Zayn comes by at exactly two, his face freshly shaven, but eyes just as dark. And he plays well- really well, and Harry is ecstatic, because now his little duo can really do something great. And Niall really _really_ likes Zayn. Harry decides they’re a good match, like cigarette ash and freshly fallen snow, and he retreats into his room to write some more songs and to leave them together to get to know each other.  


And he thinks of his home back in Cheshire and he thinks of Niall-- so far from where his family is, and how he was so willing to stay here with Harry and his crazy ideas of making music and getting by with performing in front of little crowds on the weekends (and so far it’s working because they aren’t broke and they can still afford good food and cheap beer).  


“Do you miss home?  
Do you miss home?  
And are you cool?  
Symmetrical?”  


Zayn fits into their group a little too easily, and Harry wonders what it was like before now, and all he remembers is not having enough food in his fridge for Niall’s liking. But Zayn has a real job at a bookstore so he can buy Harry more notebooks and Niall new guitars, and they thank him by letting him move in. He shares a room with Niall and Harry’s okay with that because he likes watching them so involved with one another (because now he has inspiration for new songs) and Harry hopes one day some one will look at him like that, look at his lanky limbs and pale skin and want to fold him up and keep him forever.  


“You and Z fit together,” Harry says to Niall one morning when Zayn’s working and they’re watching The Inbetweeners. Niall looks at him for a while, his eyes searching Harry’s face for any trace of sarcastic remarks, there’s none so he just shrugs.  


“Guess so, funny that,”  


And then they’re both quiet for a bit, and Harry wonders if this is what it would be like, just the three of them making good music and just spending their days doing what they wanted. But he still didn’t feel complete, and even with Zayn added to the picture he wondered if there was more waiting for him.  


They found Liam next, well actually Zayn did. He told them over a dinner of last nights pizza and more cheap beer, and through a mouthful of pepperoni he described to them a boy who was clever with a drum set and could do well in their group.  


And he does do well (in both their band and as a flat mate), and Harry decides that this was what he wanted when he set out to do whatever it is he’s doing. And he likes Liam just as much as he had liked Niall and Zayn, because he's quiet but he has a strong opinion on brands of mayonnaise, and nothing can stop him from ranting on how much hair product Zayn uses ( _your head is not a grease can, Z_ ) and then he reaches across the sofa to mess his hair up with long fingers and a laugh that Harry really likes listening to.  


On one of those Tuesday nights that the boys usually find themselves playing at the pub, Harry finally decides that he wants to play a new song.  


“Y’sure Harry?” Zayn asks, raising his eyebrows, “we haven’t gotten the drum bits figured out yet, and the bridge is a little wonky,”  


Harry just shoves his shoulder and laughs because the bridge was Zayn’s favorite part and he knew it, “Come off it Z, m’playing it and there’s nothing you can do about it,”  


And Liam smiles at Harry and tells him to do it, and he’ll just make up the drumming bits -- _bit of improvising never hurt anyone_ \-- and he finishes setting up the speakers, and making sure the drums are spaced apart at just the right length so that he won't get a cramp in his knee half way through the performance.

+

"Okay, so this is one of our newer ones," Harry starts, putting the microphone back onto the stand and seating himself on the wooden stool that had just been dragged up on the stage, "I started this one a while back, m'not really sure why I haven't finished it until now-"  


And then he can't finish his story because he sees a flash of brilliant white light, and then he thinks maybe spots of gold are floating in front of his eyes (but not really because it's just a really beautiful boy who is leaning against the pillar with a smile on his face). And Harry doesn't remember what he was planning on saying; usually he would crack a joke that would earn appreciative groans from the gaggle of UNI students that gathered at the pub to see them perform. But right now it’s like a static noise in his ears and his mind is either blank or completely filled to the brim with the golden skin of the really fit bartender standing in the back. And now he's realized that Harry is looking at him and he suddenly blushes but can’t look away.  


The silence hangs in the air, and everyone is getting restless but no one says anything for a while before someone tells him to “Get on with the fucking song”.  


And Harry lets out a laugh but doesn't give in, instead he raises his eyebrows -- _No one give that bloke anymore beer_ \-- (but his eyes are still locked on the boy in the back), and leans toward the mic a little bit more and says slowly, “I'll only start when I get the name of the really fit boy working at the bar,”  


And behind him Niall is laughing, and he thinks Zayn lets out a catcall and then gives Liam a high-five, but he doesn't turn around to see because the guy hasn't answered, he's just standing there smirking. And his hair is stuck to his forehead because of the sweaty atmosphere in the cramped room- _and fuck why didn't Harry notice him before?_  


And the guy squints up in amusement at Harry, almost trying to draw out the length of this encounter before opening his mouth laughing, “It’s Louis.” And Harry smiles because finally this song has something to be stuck to, like a label that’s big and yellow and it says _'Louis'_ with metallic lettering and he thinks that's why it took him so long to finish it. So he strums his guitar and clear his throat before beginning, “this one is for blue eyes,"  


Harry thinks that maybe that night, the lyrics held more than just words and maybe it held promises and the sweet honey suckle fumes of coffee shop love and cigarette smoke (but maybe he was just imagining it because Louis never took his eyes off of him as he sang), and Harry kept his lips almost touching the mic and stared right on back. Harry decided what he liked best was how it felt like he had written the song _for_ Louis, except that's highly impossible, but then again maybe it's not. Because now it feels like every word he sings can be related to that radiant boy with the shiny hair and a permanent smirk playing at the edge of his lips, and it doesn't feel like the song could fit anyone better.  


"Was that for me?" Louis asks, coming up behind Harry when the shows over (and Harry should have been alarmed that this boy knew his name already, but according to Niall he's been watching them preform from behind the bar every tuesday). Harry gives him a once over and smirks turning away, but the bartender puts a hand on the giant speaker that Harry was getting ready to move to the truck, stopping him in his tracks.  


“Tell me Harry, was that for me?”  


And Harry turns towards him and looks him straight in the eyes - and he tries not to fall over and _die_ because how is it possible that that shade of blue could be captured into an eye? - and he shrugs, “Guess it is now,”  


Louis cocks his hip to the side, his tongue licking over his bottom lip (Harry tries not to stare), "Well if you gave me a song, let me get you dinner?"  


And then he cringes a bit before running his hands through his fringe, "Or at least a beer, yeah?" Harry agrees to the beer because Zayn and Niall have already taken off, and Liam's surrounded by a new crowd of first year girls (it's a different bunch every night, Harry swears- but when Liam's asked about it he just laughs and sips his tea with a twinkle in his eye).  


Harry's a bit surprised when Louis clocks out, and leads him down the street to a different pub-- _I don't ever get beer there, absolutely disgusting._  


And laughing he lets Louis order four beers (two each) and watches as when Louis smiled his eyes crinkled up, and Harry's reminded of leaves in the fall when they turn gold and flutter to the ground.  


"So you're a singer?" Louis asks, dangling the bottle between his dainty fingers (and Harry wants to measure them against his own because they look half the size of Harry's pinky).  


"Yeah, I could be classified as that,"  


"Could be? What else what you be called then?" Louis asks raising his eyebrows, running his thumb around the edge of his beer bottle.  


"An artist of the musical type?" Harry tries, trying to keep his face blank, but feeling what was most likely a smile peek out of his lips.  


"Ah, I see- you're one of those dramatic troubled artist types," Louis says, leaning back in his chair like he already had Harry figured out, "I can work with that," he adds as an after thought.  


"What do you mean?" Harry asks drawing his eyebrows together.  


"You try to keep your thoughts private, you don't like letting people in. I've met people like you before Harry Styles, so don't try any of that with me,"  


And Harry tries not to be obvious with the fact that Louis had basically described him perfectly, because yeah he liked keeping his thoughts private from everyone else. He wasn't one to jump right in to things. But that doesn't stop him from wanting to lean across the table and kiss those words right out of Louis' lips and show him that he wasn't one to be closed off.  


"You don't know me," Harry says instead, leaning forward just a little bit and resting his chin on his hands.  


"Ah, Harry, but that's the thing," Louis quips, leaning forward as well, "I want to,"  


And Harry smiles this time (trying not to hide it because this smile is one he's proud of because it's screaming out 'Louis' and it's signaling his racing heart and the slight buzz in his ears because of this really hot boy sitting just a couple inches across from him).  


"Well I really want to know you too," Harry says and he's surprised that he actually means it. But he does because there's something about Louis- something that makes him want sing out right now in the middle of the bar and hug a complete stranger (and maybe he'll settle for hugging Louis instead because he was a stranger just an hour ago).  


"Well, then get to know me," Louis smiles, downing the rest of his beer. 

+

And Harry does get to know Louis. He gets to know how Louis doesn't like socks -- _my feet like to be free_ \-- how he can't cook for shit, and how he knows every single song on Harry's playlist (even the old bands that Zayn doesn't recognize). And two weeks after meeting him he knows how Louis likes waking up early to make himself a cup of tea, how his favorite movie is titanic, and how he knows every line and song in Grease.  


Harry's favorite thing about Louis is how he likes to climb on top of Harry and suck marks into the underside of his jaw, grinding himself down into his lap, breathing hard into Harry's curls. But before they can get anywhere he'll nip at Harry's ear and climb off -- _sorry love, I have work_ \-- and run to the bathroom to take a shower (And Harry's only joined him once so far- Louis was thirty minutes late to his shift and he forgot his wallet, but he did have a love bite under the collar of his shirt).  


And Louis gets to know Harry too, and he wasn't completely wrong with his assumption the first night they met. Because there are days where Harry doesn't talk that much, and instead he'll stay in his room -if he isn't at the pub getting ready to preform- and write pages of lyrics (and he won't come out until Louis comes in with a cup of tea and the promise of ordering Chinese food). And Louis finds out that Harry really loves fortune cookies -- _they're always accurate, it's scary_ \-- and he'll excitedly hand one to Louis doing a count down so they crack their cookies open at the exact same time.  


"What does yours say?" He would ask, leaning forward, trying to read the message off of the white slip of paper.  
Louis would turn his shoulder, blocking it from view, "No way Styles, I have to read it to you,"  
And then he'd say some thing stupid like,"If there's a really fit boy sitting in front of you them kiss him until he can't breathe".  


And then Harry would lean forward, kissing him until they're both red in the face and gasping for air, but he'd slip the paper out of Louis' fingers and read it for himself (making sure that he told Louis his lucky numbers, -- 6, 13, 17, 22, and 34).  


Louis doesn't officially move in, it's more like he came for dinner one night and never really left. But no one minds (Harry think that Niall may like Louis just as much as the bottles of beer that he spends so much time with, and Liam always pulls Louis away to show him his comic collection) and Louis fits right in, sliding into place like another limb in this mismatched body of patchwork boys. And Harry feels him sometimes thumping along with his heart- zipping underneath his skin like an extra pulse. He thinks that maybe if he holds his wrist up to his ear, his blood would flow in a slightly different way and every beat would whisper, _Louis_ , and then his heart would stutter and maybe even stop for a little bit, almost as if his viens were giddy from pronouncing Louis' name.  


Or maybe it didn't work that way at all, maybe instead of being in Harry's veins, Louis had intruded into his lungs. Maybe he had changed the dynamics of the air that Harry breathed, replacing the need for oxygen with the need for Louis. For Louis' skin, Louis' eyes, Louis' hair, Louis' fragile bones.  


And he wakes one morning, heavy with sleep, and feels Louis' arms wrapped around him in the place where his chest becomes his stomach, and he tries not to think too hard about how he's the little spoon. (But maybe he really likes being treated like glass vase, like at any moment he could slip and shatter).  


Harry especially likes it in the evenings, when they both get ready for bed together (He likes it when Louis hasn't changed into his Pj's yet, but he's already stripped off his day clothes and he just brushes his teeth in his Top-man boxers). 

Louis always finds it amusing how Harry can't help but stare, letting his mouth hang open just enough for Louis to see the toothpaste on the corner of his lips. And in a split second decision Louis leans up onto the tips of his toes and presses his lips softly against Harry’s, his mouth tasting of peppermint and he guesses it represents fresh starts, or something like that. 

“What’s that for?” Harry asks, wiping the pale blue foam from his lips. 

“Toothpaste kisses?” Louis answers sheepishly, washing his toothbrush off in the sink and placing back into the purple plastic cup in the corner. Harry laughs and rolls his eyes as Louis breaks into song, "Cradle me, I'll Cradle you-" 

"M'too big for you," Harry interjects poking Louis' cheek and running off the the bedroom, hiding in the blankets (And he tries not to let his heart swell too big when Louis joins him, wrapping both of them up in the sheets until their feet are pressed against each other's legs and their breath tangles together). 

And Harry decides that maybe now he can write about him and Louis, instead of Zayn and Niall. But he decides that no amount of writing will ever be good enough, because the biggest speeches are given in three worded statements. And he had already given Louis that speech (like after he preforms and Louis gives him a hug and tells him how good he played -- _not that you don't usually play good, but this preformance was exceptional_ \-- and Harry shoves his shoulder, but then pulls him back for a kiss). 

Before Louis, the repition of the three simple words had been cheap. But Louis seemed to inflate them with the same sunshine that radiated from every pore of his body, using his laughter and light kisses to bring the meaning back. And Harry thinks that maybe Louis is the only one who can say, _"I love you"_ , and have it hold the same power as any 1980's love ballad. 


End file.
